Penumbra
by akg.writes
Summary: A journey through light and shadow.
1. Prologue: The Attack

**Prologue: The Attack**

I would be at a loss to tell you precisely which moment it was that I knew something terrible, something nigh unthinkable, was happening.

Was it the slick, almost musical sound of a well-maintained blade being pulled with deliberate skill from its sheath? Perhaps it was, though I somehow doubt that the expert fingers folded around the hilt could have belonged to one so insidious as to make it this far and yet so careless as to produce such a telltale sound.

Was it the wet, indelicate sound of lifeblood splattering across otherwise pristine white stone, then? The inevitably uncouth finale to the delicate non-sound of a human throat parting easily beneath a sharp and delicate blade? Perhaps it was, but by the grace of the Light, it has been many years since I've heard such a sound - with grace everlasting, it will be longer still – and my wakeful ears surely could not have heard at this distance the details my unconscious ears cannot forget.

Was it the sudden, oppressive silence which fell across the normally bustling halls, the sudden, terrible stillness which shattered the pleasant serenity of the Cathedral? Perhaps it was, and I hope never again to hear the quiet reverence of our sanctuary ravaged by something so insidious, so terrible, as a silence devoid of Light.

Perhaps, though, I simply imagined all these things. Perhaps I, like many of the victims I have aided throughout my career, simply manufactured these false memories to match the images I have since been unable to un-see.

The roar of fury from Lord Shadowbreaker's throat, though, I know I did not invent. The man has always terrified me – and for a physician to admit that a single, battle-scarred veteran of the utmost regard, no matter how dark the memories flickering in his one remaining eye, has the power to liquefy her knees, that is no easy task – but he is a man of the Light and his goodness shines with it. It is easy to forget that he is a man who has survived two wars and that his piety alone can account for only part of his success.

His roar, a guttural, almost animal sound that could more easily have come from the ravaged throat of an orcish blademaster, echoed through the Cathedral and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with dear Brother Cassius. It was that odd moment immediately after something terrible and unexpected has happened, that moment where you invariably wonder "Was I the only one who heard that?", but the color quickly draining from Brother Cassius's wizened face told me all I needed to know.

I half-hoped that Brother Cassius would stay where he was – the dear man, for all the times I've caught him trying valiantly not to ogle me when I wear my white robes, truly does know little more than what wild quillvine and fish oil tell him and anything that could cause Lord Shadowbreaker to yell as if the entire Burning Legion were upon him would certainly cause Brother Cassius's old heart to give out – but I did not spare the time to check. I ran out to the main chamber of the Cathedral, grabbing my medical bag but clipping my shoulder on one of the bookcases in my haste, and ignored the hiss of Brother Cassius's whispered, "Shaina, be careful!"

I came to an abrupt halt as soon as I entered the mail hall of the Cathedral, struck both dumb and still by the chaos which greeted me.

A body garbed in the white robes depicting some kind of service to the Light lay splayed before the altar, directly behind the Archbishop, his lifeblood staining the normally blue altar carpet a slick, ominous black. Even from the distance, I could see the clean, almost surgical edges of the wound which belied the violent strength that had inflicted them; the brother had been nearly decapitated in a single, violent, practiced swipe.

The High Priestess was on her knees beside the body, her normally immaculate blond tresses falling haphazardly into her face, and it was obvious that her attacker had struck her as soon as she flew around the altar to help the fallen brother. Her beautiful features were marred by an expression of pain, her eyes bright. She was clutching the obviously ravaged flesh of her upper arm in a white-knuckled grip – "Good girl," I told her silently - but the tatters of her sleeve were already soaked with her blood and her normally golden face was ashen. A young priestess I could not identify – perhaps a young girl simply unfortunate enough to be seeking wisdom within the Cathedral's walls at the time the visiting brother was cut down – was scrambling to extricate herself from where she'd thrown herself over the High Priestess. She was taking deep, desperate, gulping breaths, no doubt trying to steady herself just enough to perform the delicate incantations that might stabilize the weakening Laurena. A younger brother – Brother Joshua, was it? – dropped to his knees beside her, the horror and shock of his "By the Light…" somehow clearly resonating through the tumult of the Cathedral, frantically tearing at his own robes to help bind Laurena's wounds. Children, I noted to myself tiredly but without venom, but mouthed a silent "thank you" to the desperate pair for their quick thinking nonetheless.

"Sacrilege!" shouted an enraged Benedictus. I had never heard the Archbishop speak at more than a reverent murmur and somehow, I found this more shocking than even Lord Shadowbreaker's war cries. The Archbishop's voice, normally a soft and gravelly tone that has always reminded me of my grandfather, reverberated thunderously around the stone walls. The Archbishop, displaying a power I knew a man of his position must possess but one which I had never before actually seen, stood at the base of the altar with his arms outstretched and his mighty staff glowing bright with his fury. Even across the great hall of the Cathedral, I could feel the crackling energy of the holy shield protecting him as he roared, "Defend the Cathedral!"

Whatever had killed the brother on the altar, whatever had disabled the High Priestess, seemed little more than a whisper of darkness. As a physician, I relate far more to science than I do to the occult. It occurred to me even then, with my heartbeat pounding in my ears and my vision tunneling down, that _something_ had virtually severed the brother's head. _Something_ had sliced through Laurena's delicate flesh. And yet, I wasn't quite sure what I was looking at, or even if, at any given point in time, I was actually looking in the right place to see it.

Duthorian Rall bellowed in frustration and I realized that I was not the only one who could not readily identify the threat. If Lord Shadowbreaker noticed his companion's slip, though, he did not comment. Instead, his voice dangerously low, he said merely, "Knights, to me."

Both Rall and Katherine joined him immediately at the center of the main hall, light, tinted into misleadingly charming colors by the grand stained glass ornamenting the windows behind the altar, glinting off their armor. They exchanged brisk nods with one another then abruptly turned outwards, forming a triangle between the three of them, three golden hammers at the ready. Even from my position farther down the hall, I could feel their power. I shuddered.

I served in the Third War, you know. Primary physician at the front lines. Dr. Van Howzen and I saw more blood in a single day on those fields than I ever hope to see in the rest of my days. I still cannot wear red because out of the corner of my eye, I always see something, someone, swathed in blood. Not a day goes by that I don't think about having to use the bodies of the people I couldn't save as cover from torrential arrow fall.

And to this day, I can think of nothing more awe-inspiring, nothing more awful, than the brothers and sisters of the Silver Hand united together in defense of the Light. Our teachers, our guardians, our spiritual leaders… our blood-covered defenders, our righteous slayers, our battle-hardened warriors.

I had breakfast with Katherine that morning, you know. I teased her about the way Thornberry, that toady little warlock, looked at her when we passed; as befits a paladin of her stature and a bearer of an epithet like "The Pure", Katherine had been righteously indignant and as one of her closest friends, I had chortled righteously at her expense. As my laughter had echoed throughout the Cathedral – I had attempted to gather myself prior to entering the sacred walls, mind you, but of all the reasons I chose to become a physician rather than a priest, an inherent lack of proper decorum was perhaps the most compelling – Duthorian Rall had grunted his displeasure at me; it surely would have been more impressive if the man ever did anything but grunt his displeasure at me but as it was, it was the start to yet another pleasant day. I'm sure even Lord Shadowbreaker himself came to the Cathedral that morning for his meditations, fully expecting to spend the day guiding and teaching the young paladins who drift constantly in and out of the Cathedral, his patience limitless and his wisdom key.

As I saw their proud, magnificent forms in the center of the Cathedral, saw the cold stones beneath them begin to glow with the same terrible fire engulfing the Archbishop's staff, it occurred to me that I had sorely misjudged my colleagues. Oh, they were certainly as pious as I thought, probably more so. They were certainly as good-hearted. They were undoubtedly talented instructors and dedicated spiritual leaders.

They were also battle-hardened holy warriors, trained killers, and I was shocked that even I, a veteran myself, could have forgotten so easily. There was no hint of a girlish blush across sweet Katherine's cheeks; her blue eyes were hard, her jaw set, and the fingers which had only a few hours earlier covered her mouth in horror at one of my particularly bawdy jokes were wrapped with expert ease around a gilded hilt. To her left stood Rall, showing no hint of the practiced though ultimately harmless gruffness that intimidated young paladins but provided endless amusement to the herds of altar boys who were too young to be properly impressed, and he and his companions were all momentarily engulfed in a bright, almost blinding golden light as he summoned raw power from deep within his faith. And finally, completing their triad, was Lord Shadowbreaker whom I did not recognize as the almost grandfatherly advisor and mentor at the very nucleus of Stormwind's paladin forces; in his place, I saw only the second-in-command of the Silver Hand, one of the most powerful holy warriors alive, his body –even the very stones beneath his feet – gleaming with an awful holy fury that made his utterly impassive countenance that much more striking.

The stones of the Cathedral were now actually aflame, pulses of holy fire throbbing from the warriors, heating the stone beneath them in a fiery, awful cleansing until they gleamed with a fury all their own. I knew the fury was not for me, that even if I were so brave as to step into its midst – I was not – that I would not be burned, but I could feel the deadly heat on my face, could feel the stone trembling beneath me.

I didn't hear Lord Shadowbreaker issue a command but the three paladins suddenly moved outwards in unison, each taking three deliberate steps away from their tight circle. And here again they called upon the Light, consecrating the stones beneath them with holy flame. I was awash in another wave of heat.

I suddenly felt a whisper of something cold against my cheek as a shadow passed me, felt the warmth of the surrounding skin suddenly drain away to be replaced with a deep chill that was, impossibly, much less the brittle iciness of winter itself and somehow much more the lonely, echoing despair of a departing autumn and a long-forgotten spring. I recoiled, a gasp of horror lodged in my throat, and stumbled on suddenly weak knees.

Thankfully, though I could not force a sound from my lips, Lord Shadowbreaker somehow knew of my distress and he came flying towards me, a golden blur that was somehow both light and sound. An irrational part of me knew that I would be struck down under a devastating blow from his hammer, that in the heat of battle and the confusion of the moment, he had mistaken me for the enemy… and this part of me recoiled from him, a shriek on my lips, as he drew the weapon back. But the other part of me recognized the glimmer in his eyes as not the bloodlust that had taken lesser warriors before him but instead, the singular, controlled focus of a battle master; and this part of me was not surprised when the golden hammer came within mere inches of my horrified eyes. Time slowed, my vision tunneled, and as the golden blur of his hammer flew before me, a trail of unmistakable warmth followed in its wake, removing some of the desolate chill that had befallen me.

As I fell to the ground, my legs suddenly unable to support me, I heard the unmistakable crunch of a weapon hitting solid flesh and bone and the sound of the impossibly solid shadow shrieking in a combination of rage and pain. The stones beneath me began glowing and the bleakness that had suffused my bones began to recede, replaced with a gentle, comforting warmth; at the same time, though, the shadow's shrieks of anger quickly became choking, desperate screams of agony. I weakly lifted my head in time to see the shadow – but she was not a shadow anymore; had she ever been?; I shook my head, trying to clear it, but only managed to blur my vision again - desperately trying to ward off the unforgiving rain of blows from Shadowbreaker, even as the fury of the consecrated stones beneath her began searing her flesh.

It became rather obvious to me, even in my addled state, that the attacker's primary advantage was surprise; once fully exposed, she couldn't seem to regroup enough to unleash onto any single target, let alone the three paladins surrounding her, the same amount of devastation she had so easily bestowed upon the fallen brother and the High Priestess. She caught Duthorian Rall with the edge of a blade – I saw the unmistakable arc of blood and heard his enraged bellow – but it seemed almost incidental, as if it were nothing more than a wild, uncontrolled blow that had managed through luck alone to connect; what grace and fluid control she had exhibited earlier seemed gone, lost in a wild disarray of desperate, unconnected movements.

With a final blow from Shadowbreaker, her daggers were loosed from suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered unceremoniously to the ground. She crumpled to the ground a moment later, soundlessly.

After a seemingly interminable moment in which the entire Cathedral was in stillness, Lord Shadowbreaker spoke merely two words: "Secure it."

Duthorian Rall retrieved one of the fallen daggers, running a callused finger over the engraved hilt, eyes narrowing. Sweet Katherine, her face utterly impassive, kicked the remaining dagger to the far wall then nudged the body over with a brusque toe, patting it down with her foot for any indication of additional weapons. The head lolled ominously – if Shadowbreaker hadn't snapped the neck with that last blow, he'd crushed everything else – and a sudden wave of foulness roiled over me; I gagged instinctively, involuntarily, and in my humiliation, could feel Lord Shadowbreaker's single eye observing my weakness.

"Clear," Katherine said.

Rall wordlessly handed her the dagger before he hefting his weapon up again and stalking towards the altar, a fist clenched around the wound he'd sustained. Katherine looked at the dagger's hilt and an expression I couldn't read passed over her delicate features; she abruptly turned on her heel after Rall, giving no indication that she was even aware of the waves of dueling death and undeath permeating the air around the corpse. As my stomach churned and my eyes watered, I envied her this; I let my head fall back to the cooling stones in my misery.

"Are you recovered?"

Shadowbreaker's voice was gentle enough – oddly so, I supposed with clinical detachment, considering the amount of brain matter still decorating his hammer - that I did not respond with the obvious, "Do I LOOK like I'm recovered?" Instead, I responded with what I hoped was a lucid and infinitely more polite, "Getting there, m'lord." It sounded muffled even to me as I had spoken directly into the stones rather than lift my head up.

Shadowbreaker was silent for a moment. At first I thought that he had either left in pursuit of more engaging conversationalists or that he was simply wondering if the encounter had left me completely and permanently addled, but then I felt a gentle warmth fall over me like a blanket. It took me a moment to realize that as the warmth dissipated, it took my nausea with it. I blinked once… twice… then raised my head experimentally.

I began to express my thanks but as my vision cleared, I saw the unmistakable glint of light over Lord Shadowbreaker's shoulder. I opened my mouth to warn him but before I could even utter a sound, I heard a female voice shout, "No!", her voice echoing through the otherwise quiet of the Cathedral.

A lot of things happened just then. As soon as the young woman's voice pierced the quiet, Shadowbreaker dove over me. The metal dagger that had glinted ominously behind him sliced down through the air; I heard him grunt and sensed his trajectory in the air change abruptly. As he crashed down on the other side of me, the shadow holding the dagger coalesced into something decidedly physical but before I could even register fear, it suddenly grabbed its head, dropping its daggers to the floor, and howled in agony as the unmistakable chill of dark magic descended onto it. It was a cloud of cold, bitter agony completely unlike the furious, burning power of the Light, and the Cathedral itself – despite the fact that this magic was used in its defense - seemed to protest its use within its walls.

By this time, heralded by the clamor of hardened armor against stone, both Katherine and Duthorian Rall were upon the latest intruder. This one lasted no longer than the first, perhaps even less, and unlike her equally ill-fated predecessor, did not even manage to land a lucky hit against the paladins. She joined her predecessor on the stone floor with little fanfare. After the previous events of the morning, it would have all been rather unremarkable save for the horrified expression on the High Priestess's face as she beheld the wide-eyed young woman at her side whose arms were still outstretched with the power of her spell.

I chose that moment to pass out.


	2. Arrivals

**Chapter 1: Arrivals**

Alaric Cyrin had not set foot in the mighty Stormwind City since a sharp-eyed Lady Eris had spotted him in his ruined bassinet and borne him away from the smoldering ruins of Goldshire into the relative safety of the nearby citadel. He, of course, had no memories of Goldshire's routing or the subsequent desperate flight to Stormwind… and, for that matter, he had mercifully few of the First War at all. If he had ever indulged in a childish wish that he could remember his parents, it was quickly tempered by the fact that though Lady Eris's golden face had supplanted his mother's as the smiling face over his crib, though it was Lord Eris's strong hands and not his father's that had picked him off the ground and put him back in the saddle, he had been lucky indeed, far luckier than most. Any lingering memories fortune might have granted him of his parents would invariably have been tempered by the violent deaths they had met under orcish blades.

He had seen enough of those in the Third War. He certainly didn't mind being spared a few others.

"Been a while, eh?"

Cyrin didn't bother to tear his gaze from the gently swirling chimney smoke rising above the lush greenery ahead of them. He suspected that the last time he'd been in the town, the smoke rising above the trees had not been nearly as pleasant, nor the sounds of Elwynn's green havens nearly so tranquil. He wondered briefly if the songbirds currently flirting in the trees ahead would have escaped the forest ahead of the Horde's advance or if they, too, had been subjected to an indiscriminate, violent cleansing. "Quite a while," he agreed.

"It didn't have to be as long a while," Dieter said pointedly, reining his horse in next to Cyrin's.

Cyrin fixed a tired look on his companion and Dieter raised his hands in immediate surrender. "I know, I know. War this. Political upheaval that." He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, grimacing, before shooting a baleful look at Cyrin. "But the least we could have done was take that gnomish wonder from Ironforge instead of riding. The last time my ass hurt this much, I was -"

"Good morning, m'lady!" Cyrin said loudly, raising a hand in greeting to an approaching figure. "Mind your manners," he added out of the corner of his mouth without affecting the welcoming smile.

The woman – young and pretty, Cyrin noted with a detachment Dieter clearly had yet to master, if the expression on his companion's face was any indication – dropped into a sloppy but obviously well-intentioned curtsy, the hem of her blue skirt dipping into the dust. "Good morning, sirs," she said pleasantly. Her eyes swept over them quickly and Cyrin realized that for all her charming youth, she had managed in a single glance to take in their heavy armor, weary horses, small packs, and unfamiliar tabards. Either she was a particularly skilled saleswoman or the occasional Horde raiding parties through the area had taught her caution at an early age. The latter, he mused to himself, would be infinitely more useful.

A side glance at Dieter indicated that he had yet to progress past observing the 'charming youth' part. Cyrin resisted the urge to sigh.

"May I interest you in any drink or bread?" the young woman continued. She smiled at them both, though she directed her next comment to Dieter who, with the appreciative expression on his face that he was trying and quite obviously failing to disguise, was clearly the more receptive. Cyrin added a point to the 'skilled saleswoman' column. "Surely after such long travels, you must be in need of refreshment!"

Cyrin didn't really have the heart to tell her exactly what kind of refreshment Dieter no doubt thought he needed but he spoke quickly anyway, lest Dieter not have the same reticence on the subject. "No, thank you," he said politely. "We're on our way to Stormwind. Will this road take us to the city gates?"

A flash of disappointment crossed the young woman's face – young indeed, Cyrin thought to himself, for it was far too brief a flash; a few more years, and she would know the exact type of pout to produce to pull a sucker like Dieter right in – but she answered promptly and sincerely. "This road will take you to Goldshire." She turned around and gestured to the swirls of chimney smoke. "It's just up ahead. Once you get into town, take a right." She smiled impishly up at them. "There's a sign post, if you need it, but if you miss the one and only turn in town, you might need more help than just a sign post."

Ah, the impish smile. Perhaps not so young as he thought… though young enough that the technique was still more endearing than desperate. "Thank you," he said.

"Be careful though," she added. "Mr. Perelli just came through and he mentioned that something bad had happened at the Cathedral."

Cyrin exchanged a quick glance with the suddenly serious Dieter. "Something bad?" he repeated, keeping his voice casual.

The young woman shrugged her slender shoulders. "Mr. Perelli didn't know anything more," she said. "He just said that the Cathedral was surrounded by guards."

Cyrin glanced at Dieter again and saw his own concern mirrored in his friend's eyes - if there had been an incident at the Cathedral, a bastion of Light in the heart of a walled city, that Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker himself could not handle, he doubted very much that he or Dieter would be of much use at all – but he smiled at the young lady nonetheless. "The Cathedral was to be our first destination anyway; we shall certainly offer our services," he reassured her. He nodded briskly at Dieter, then nodded down at the young woman. "Thank you again for all of your assistance."

She dropped into another slipshod, though charmingly enthusiastic, curtsy, and said, "Well met, sirs!"

Cyrin prodded his horse to the fastest pace possible that would not unduly alarm the young woman or any of the Goldshire townspeople as they rode through. Dieter matched his pace effortlessly and drew his horse close. The two mounts, well-trained warhorses as they were, did not break stride despite the close quarters. "What do you think?" he asked quietly.

Cyrin shook his head slightly and said merely, "I think we just spoke to a lovely young woman who was born in Goldshire, will live and die in Goldshire, and revels in new and interesting bits of information that come from anywhere but Goldshire."

Dieter snorted. "So you're making me ride this fast because my ass isn't bruised enough already?"

"A mere perk," Cyrin said. He drew is horse up abruptly, noting a group of townspeople congregating in the center of the upcoming town. Though he supposed a small part of him might have been curious about the idyllic little town that had sprouted from the ruins he had left, he had not the patience to navigate through a horde of curious townspeople. He jerked the reins, murmuring a soft apology to his mount when she snorted her displeasure at him, and started forging a path through the trees. They would hit the road to Stormwind on the outskirts of town.

As Dieter caught up, he asked rhetorically, "Isn't it odd that Brother Karman suggested we leave duty – a Captain and his Lieutenant, mind you, leaving Theramore while Greyshield insights desertion, even sedition, from the ranks of the Guard – and make a pilgrimage to study under Shadowbreaker… and the day we arrive, there is trouble at the Cathedral?"

"'Odd' isn't the word I'd use to describe that, no," Dieter said. "Shadowbreaker may be on Karman's short list of esteemed colleagues but I never thought I'd hear him – or anyone back home, for that matter – actually tell us to leave the city for Stormwind. Hell, I'm already wondering how I'll explain Wrynn's perfume on my tabard when we get back."

Cyrin did not take his eyes from the foliage ahead of him to shoot Dieter a warning glance, instead saying merely, "You forget which side of the sea we're on, Dieter, and you've let political machinations blur the sides of the war. We are on Stormwind's side of the ocean and Stormwind is on our side of the war. Don't forget that."

They came upon the main road to the Stormwind city gates and they silently urged their horses faster, though not fast enough to miss the slightly narrowed, not-quite-hostile gaze from a Stormwind Guard as they flew past her.

"I won't if they won't," Dieter muttered. Before Cyrin could lash him with the expected rebuke, he quickly returned to their topic. "So Karman sends us out here to see Shadowbreaker and the day we get here, there's trouble at the Cathedral. If you're suggesting that the good Brother is a fortune-teller, Cyrin…"

"Brother Karman does Lady Proudmoore's bidding," Cyrin said shortly. "As do we."

Dieter paused. "And if M'Lady suggested we come…" His voice trailed off. Cyrin's suggestion suddenly didn't seem quite so far-fetched.

Cyrin abruptly reined his horse in as they cleared the white gates of Stormwind, his mount's hooves clattering against the white stone as he guided her slowly towards Stormwind's High Commander, mounted imperiously at the inner entrance to the city. "Exactly," was all he said to Dieter.

He drew his mount to a swift stop directly in front of the general. He executed a swift, crisp salute. It was a sign of respect which as a member of the Theramore Guard he was not technically obligated to give, but one which he could not justify withholding on those grounds alone. The general's stance alone was that of a battle-hardened veteran who had already spent a lifetime in service of his people and an intercontinental political tug-of-war between human strongholds seemed somehow insignificant by comparison. One engraving in his glistening armor was painfully familiar to Cyrin: that of a commander in the pivotal assault on Blackrock Spire during which Lothar fell and Turalyon rallied. He remembered the craftsmen that had come to his home in the wake of the pallbearers to engrave the very same pattern on his fallen guardian's armor.

"Captain Alaric Cyrin and Lieutenant Bowen Dieter of the Theramore Guard, sir," he said.

The general, a powerfully built man easily bearing both the weight of engraved plate armor and the responsibility of the brilliant blue and gold of the Stormwind tabard, returned the salute. "At ease," he said. His eyes swept over them quickly, efficiently, and Cyrin was unsurprised when after just a few moments of observation, the general said, "Lord Shadowbreaker may not be available to provide training at this time. If you are unable to meet with him, I highly suggest lodgings at the Gilded Rose."

Cyrin spent a valuable moment trying to come up with a particularly tactful way of honing in on Shadowbreaker's unavailability but gave up almost immediately. Instead, he said merely, "We heard from a young lady near Goldshire that there has been an incident of some sort at the Cathedral. Our services are available as necessary, sir."

The general eyed him for a long moment and when he spoke, his voice was mild. "Stormwind City is an ocean away from your jurisdiction, Captain."

"Understood, sir," Cyrin agreed easily.

The general was silent for another moment as he calmly perused Cyrin and, apparently finding what he was looking for, he then nodded briskly. "Visit the Cathedral first, Captain," he said. "If anyone is in need of your services today, you will find them there." He scribbled quickly across a small piece of parchment and handed it to Cyrin, explaining, "Authorization to work in accord with the Stormwind Guard. If the Knights or the cloth at the Cathedral do require your assistance within the city walls, you may be challenged – and rightfully so – by members of the Guard throughout the city. Keep that in case."

"Thank you, sir," Cyrin said, tucking the scrap of parchment carefully into his saddlebag. He nodded once at Dieter and they guided their horses slowly into the city proper.

"Gentlemen."

At the sound of the general's voice, Cyrin immediately reined his horse in and spun her around. Dieter did the same. "Yes, sir?"

The general's expression was cool. "Do not embarrass yourselves, your Guard, or Lady Proudmoore while in my city."

"Understood, sir," said Cyrin.

The general nodded once in acknowledgement, then turned away, effectively dismissing them. Cyrin and Dieter exchanged brief glances then turned their horses around again and continued on.

Dieter, surprisingly enough, kept any quips about the general to himself as they guided their horses past the inner city gates and into what looked to the be the heart of the city's trade center. As the din of the bustling center swirled around them, Cyrin considered momentarily that the younger man had perhaps finally learned some manner of restraint.

"It's not so different from home," Dieter said, his eyes raking across the center as they followed the cobbled path towards the heart of the city. He pointed to the left. "I lost my virginity in a tavern that looked a lot like that one."

Or perhaps not. Cyrin shot him a tired look and went back to observing the city as they rode, memorizing the layout and noting several interesting architectural features which, despite the lively and prolific marketplace swirling around them in obvious and oblivious prosperity, quite easily spoke to the city's storied and tragic history. Only survivors, he noted, would reconstruct their city with such defensible perimeters under the guise of white-stoned elegance , with such architecturally stunning series of aqueducts, bridges, and archways hiding the military significance of chokepoints and geographical force multipliers. He wondered briefly if after the incident at the Cathedral, the Guard had effectively quarantined that district.

"When were you last here?"

Cyrin's answered evenly without taking his discerning gaze from the city around him, "I escaped with Lord and Lady Eris to Lordaeron as the city fell in the First War. The Lord and Lady assisted in retaking the city in the Second War but did not live to return. I began my training with the Silver Hand shortly thereafter and have not seen the city rebuilt until today." He jerked a nod to his right, gesturing down the length of an large aqueduct. "The Keep is in the far north-northeast of the city proper in that direction. The Cathedral is directly ahead of us, across the aqueduct and through that arch." He gazed around him for a moment, the continued, "The Guard seems to be adhering to standard patrolling cycles. No unusual activity around the Keep and no active containment on the Cathedral segment."

Dieter matched Cyrin's gaze, attempting to see what his commander did. "So… either the action is all over or…" He paused slightly before guessing, "They're trying to keep it quiet?"

Cyrin shrugged slightly, nudging his horse into movement again. "Stormwind City is far removed from the wars. The Scourge strongholds are far to the north. The city is not nestled between Horde strongholds as we are. I would not insult the General to suggest that his citizenry is complacent… but I suspect that he can easily see the value of avoiding undue alarm in a potentially unprepared population."

"Diplomatic as always," Dieter snorted.

They passed easily over the next bridge, their well-trained warhorses unfazed and unimpressed by the deep water below them, and passed beneath the last remaining archway, bringing the Cathedral square into easy view. To this point, Stormwind had yet to truly impress Cyrin – the white stone glimmering in the sunlight, the guard towers reaching high into the blue sky, the stone walls encompassing the city and protecting its citizenry were all impressive achievements, to be sure, but all reminded him of Theramore's own similar accomplishments – but as the Cathedral of Light came into view, its etched and polished walls glistening, the stained glass of its mighty windows sparkling brilliantly against the sun, and the rich, brilliantly colored carpet blanketing its gleaming white steps, he found himself momentarily agape. Theramore was a stronghold, a military presence, and recently, even a trade center. It was not and never had been a haven of the Light or a center of the arts. The Cathedral was both and not even heavy sprinkling of uniformed Guards around its perimeter or the small clusters of curious onlookers could compromise its majesty.

"Whoa," said Dieter.

Whoa, indeed. Cyrin glanced around the square, then, unsurprised to see no stable in the immediate area, swung himself off of his mount's back and looped her reins loosely over a bough of the nearest tree, leaving her enough slack to reach the fountain for a well-deserved drink. He ran a hand affectionately over her flank then strode toward the steps leading into the Cathedral, Dieter in his wake.

He stopped two steps from the guard perimeter and held up the parchment the General had given him. "Captain Cyrin and Lieutenant Dieter of the Theramore Guard," he said without preamble, "here to see Lord Shadowbreaker."

The guard scanned the document quickly then handed it back to Cyrin with a brisk nod. "Up the stairs, sir. Please keep your weapons sheathed."

Excellent procedural training, Cyrin noted. Crisp adherence to an obviously predefined procedure, despite the fact that this was likely the first lockdown this young soldier had experienced. Confident delivery. Exactly the necessary amount of information but exactly no more. "Thank you," was all he said.

He and Dieter ascended the stone staircase, Cyrin noting in professional approval that not a single member of the obviously well-trained Guard afforded his Theramore tabard more than a cursory glance. It was something each noted, he was sure, much as they noted the sword at his hip and the shield strapped to his back, but he was pleased to note that today would apparently not be the day a Theramore captain became the exclamation point at the end of a political statement. A good start.

He paused at the top of the stone stairway and glanced over his shoulder at Dieter. Exchanging brisk nods, they rounded the corner into the Cathedral.


	3. Introductions

**Chapter 2: Introductions**

Cyrin was not quite sure exactly what he expected when he rounded the corner and entered the Cathedral proper. Perhaps a perpetrator or two, restrained just enough to make things safe but with just enough remaining freedom to keep things interesting. Perhaps the lamentations or clothes-rending of new widows. Perhaps even the endlessly amusing huffing and spluttering of frightened city administrators confronting irritated military leaders.

He was fairly sure, though, that he had _not_ expected the scene of such a recent atrocity – and atrocity it had been, for his nostrils were immediately accosted by the rich scent of fresh blood the moment he rounded the corner – to be so fresh and yet with the purported victims to be so… matter-of-fact. The voices within the room were muted, almost polite, and while several individuals spoke animatedly, there was certainly no clothes-rending or spluttering. Cyrin was almost disappointed.

A body lay splayed in front of the altar, clearly left where he had fallen, though in fairness, judging by the heavy scent of blood which permeated the Cathedral, he had not fallen more than thirty minutes earlier. Judging by the unnatural angle of the head to the body, the unfortunate victim had been close to decapitated… and the stroke had befallen him precisely where he stood, directly before the altar. Interesting. There were bloody footprints leading away from the body but these were certainly not made by the same person who inflicted the fatal blow; someone had investigated the body – in an alley, he would have thought that the victims pockets had been looted for coins but 'investigated' was likely a more appropriate term in the current circumstances – and stepped into the growing red pool.

A fair-skinned high priestess – or rather, Cyrin noted as a pair of medics fluttered around the bloodied, ripped sleeve of her robes, a priestess made all the more pale by significant blood loss – spoke heatedly with the archbishop just outside range of the pooling blood, her voice soft but clearly intense. She was gesturing animatedly with her one good arm toward a younger priestess who stood the characteristic two steps behind her and the archbishop was responding with a combination of empathy and weariness. The younger priestess, much smaller than even the rather diminutive high priestess, stood at a cool parade rest behind her, her chin tilted upwards slightly and her gaze unwavering, clearly within earshot of a conversation obviously about her and just as clearly trying not to care. She seemed too young to be actually successful in the latter, Cyrin noted, but she certainly was putting on quite an convincing front.

He drew his eyes away from the members of cloth. Two other clearly lifeless bodies lay on the floor, both much farther from the altar, and judging from the noxious fluid oozing from the piles of ravaged flesh and the rank stench of decomposition clouding above them, Cyrin was fairly certain that the best those unfortunate two had managed before their latest demise had been undeath. He knelt down next to the closest body, careful to avoid the fetid pools surrounding it, and ignored the soft gagging sound behind him that likely came from an unprepared Dieter.

He observed the body from head to toe – or rather, what remained of the former; the victim had apparently become very well acquainted with a large and powerful blunt object in her last moments – then reached out and carefully folded a gore-soaked piece of fabric away from the victim's thick leather belt, holding it out of the way with a single finger. Two small, leather scabbards were secured to opposite sides of the belt, each bearing runic symbols along the length of the scabbard and converging in identical metal chapes with similarly intricate etchings. He frowned, glanced at the other body, observed the scabbards for another moment, then abruptly moved to the second body.

At the second body, he wasted no time in a full examination, instead going directly to the belt. His touch was careful and his movements deliberate – he had no desire to corrupt any information a more skilled observer than he could glean from the body – and his eyes narrowed slightly as he exposed a second set of runed scabbards.

"What do you see?"

Cyrin's head shot up at the mild question and he was met with the piercing, one-eyed gaze of a powerfully built, dark-haired man. He wore heavy armor, engraved with emblems denoting service in the wars, service to Stormwind, and service in the Silver Hand, and a heavy hammer hung within easy reach at his side. A heavy swath of cloth was haphazardly tied around his left elbow, between the heavy plating protecting his upper and lower arms, and a few small trickles of blood were evident in the small area of skin that was covered neither by armor nor by the cloth. Cyrin was not convinced that the obviously hurried bandaging attempt was helping quite as much as the man, whom he suspected to be Lord Shadowbreaker himself, might need it to.

However, the man had not initiated introductions, nor had he requested medical opinions. Cyrin gave his answer succinctly as he rose to his feet: "Forsaken, sir. Cult of the Forgotten Shadow." He paused. "Armor and daggers suggest Lightslayers."

The paladin looked at him with his single eye. "But?" he prompted.

Shadowbreaker, Cyrin decided. "The Cathedral of Light in the center of an Alliance stronghold is an unusually high-profile target for a Lightslayer," he said, "particularly for a target outside of the Scarlet Crusade. The objective appears to have been an assassination – " and here he gestured to the fallen brother lying in front of the altar – "but of a strangely low-ranked individual. But mostly…" He glanced between the two bodies again. "Lightslayers always operate alone."

Shadowbreaker nodded, his face impassive. Cyrin could not tell if the paladin thought he was correct or, if he did, whether or not he was impressed. "Your name, paladin?" he asked instead.

"Captain Alaric Cyrin of the Theramore Guard, sir," Cyrin answered promptly. "With Lieutenant Bowen Dieter."

Shadowbreaker acknowledged their names with a slight nod, then turned away from them as he scanned the room. He made eye contact first with two paladins speaking with each other near the altar, then the high priestess and the archibishop, and finally an elderly man robed in the unmistakable red robes of the Scarlet Crusade. He gestured for them to join him.

"Duthorian Rall and Katherine the Pure, paladins in service of the Light," Stormbreaker said of the first two arrivals, adding as the others arrived, "His Excellency Archbishop Benedictus. Laurena, High Priestess of the Light. Brother Crowley, Emissary of the Scarlet Crusade. Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Cyrin and Lieutenant Dieter of the Theramore Guard."

If the new arrivals found it odd that their very notable ranks be diluted by the presence of mere military men from a politically discordant stronghold an ocean away, they gave no indication. Cyrin attempted to do the same with a bit more success than Dieter; the lieutenant's discomfiture at his proximity to Brother Crowley, though, was palpable.

"The Captain has just provided me with his opinions regarding our guests," Shadowbreaker continued almost conversationally. "He believes we are looking at the work of two Lightslayers from the Forgotten Shadow."

Both Duthorian Rall and Katherine looked at Cyrin with far more interest this time around, and though Rall's face remained impassive, an expression of approval crossed Katherine's golden face. Rall abruptly handed him a dagger, hilt first.

The hilt, heavily jeweled, bore the unmistakable seal of the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow, much like the runed scabbard it had come from. Cyrin set his jaw and passed the dagger to Dieter for his viewing.

"Both carried them," Katherine said. She had a sweet, almost whimsical voice, Cyrin thought to himself, which even the gravity of their discussion could not disguise.

"Captain Cyrin brought up several salient points which bear further discussion," Shadowbreaker continued, his voice still mild. "The first: Lightslayers have never been known to pursue targets in areas as visible and high-profile as this. The second: The objective was clearly an assassination but of an unusually low-ranking individual. The third: Lightslayers operate alone. Brother Crowley, if you would address points one and two."

Cyrin, armed with years of presuppositions about the Scarlet Crusade as colored by his tutelage in the Silver Hand, had assumed Crowley to be an erratic creature, youthful and fiery and unpredictable and prone to unreasonable excess in all aspects of his being. He could not speak to the last point – for all he knew, he thought to himself with a hint of wicked humor, the rather stooped, staid man stepping forward regularly had a battalion of nubile gnomes dancing nude around his dinner table – but he was clearly mistaken on several others. Crowley was by no means a young man; he was older than Cyrin and the fiery red of his hair, framing a well worn face, was beginning to show the slightest hint of encroaching gray. He was serene, his movements the same strange combination of meticulous and effortless that characterized most members of the cloth that Cyrin had met, and his robes were immaculately pressed, their colors vivid.

In short, he did not seem the least bit unhinged and certainly not to the degree as his chosen affiliation might otherwise indicate. Either he was desperately in need of reevaluating his own prejudices, Cyrin thought to himself, or Crowley subscribed to the most insidious flavor of instability. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"The… victim… was Brother Ticrea," Crowley said without preamble. His voice had the faintest gravel of intruding age but was otherwise both soft and unassuming. "Brother Ticrea – or more correctly, Inquisitor Gregor Ticrea - was a member of the Scarlet Crusade. He operated primarily as a liaison between otherwise isolated Crusade forces, including emissaries, such as myself."

Cyrin noted with a flash of disappointment the complete lack of response from both the Archbishop and the High Priestess; between the blood loss and the sudden, meticulous blankness covering her features, he might have mistaken Laurena for carefully chiseled marble. No doubt that the pair had been informed previously of the "Brother"'s affiliations. Cyrin could imagine Benedictus preparing to send a sorrowful missive announcing the Brother's demise to his fictitious home abbey only to be stopped by a suddenly helpful Crowley; surely Crowley would have realized that it would be far better to announce the Brother's true identity immediately rather than to wait for the backlash later and to find himself unexpectedly in the bowels of a den surrounded by angry lions asking for explanations. A shame though; Cyrin suspected that Laurena's initial reaction to the news had been quite entertaining.

Rall and Katherine, however, had apparently not had the same advance warning and Cyrin got more the response he expected from them. Katherine's perfect pink lips parted in an almost comical "O". Rall's expression though, dangerously dark and still darkening, had no such comedic elements.

"I notice that Inquisitor Ticrea wore the colors of the Light," Rall said tightly, his striking green eyes boring icily into Crowley. He stepped aside to allow Crowley a full view of the grotesque, blood-splattered scene in front of the altar, adding sardonically, "Though at the moment, Brother, the similarities between his colors and yours are much more striking."

Cyrin would have berated a lesser paladin under his command for such a breach of protocol, but Shadowbreaker didn't move. Katherine spoke next, directing her question to Shadowbreaker and Laurena in a clipped undertone as if Crowley were not present, "Security status?" Her voice was decidedly less whimsical this time.

Laurena pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut. "SI:7 has been notified, if that is your concern, Paladin," she said tiredly from behind her hand. Cyrin thought she too might have a musical voice, were it not strained with a combination of pain and frustration. "All clergy in the city have been sequestered pending evaluation and clearance, save the Archbishop and myself." She lowered her hand and fixed a sharp look on Shadowbreaker, adding in a tight voice, "SI:7 has yet to explain to me precisely what an 'evaluation' entails, Lord Shadowbreaker, and I feel the need to reiterate that the Church will not tolerate –"

"What about that one?"

Cyrin's arms were crossed in front of his chest and he indicated the target of his question with a nod of his head.

The young priestess Laurena and the Archbishop had been discussing rather loudly when Cyrin and Dieter had arrived had been standing otherwise unnoticed behind Laurena. Her head jerked up at Cyrin's question, a few dark tendrils of hair from the tight coil atop her head falling loose in the movement, and he caught a faint glimpse of startling gray eyes before she lowered her head once more into the characteristically modest stance required of young priestesses.

Laurena began to answer but Shadowbreaker said simply, "She has been cleared already." Laurena's mouth snapped shut though Cyrin noted the look she shot at Benedictus.

Interesting, Cyrin thought. He stared at the dark-haired priestess's lowered head for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to Shadowbreaker.

"Duthorian, you will assist the Archbishop and High Priestess as necessary with interim security procedures," Shadowbreaker continued smoothly. "General Jonathan and I will meet with Mathias after his investigations are complete and will provide clarification on our long-term approach. High Priestess, your people will not be mistreated in any way beyond this unfortunate sequestering; I have Mathias's assurances that this will be handled as quickly as possible and that your people will be afforded every comfort possible during this time. Brother Crowley, please continue."

Crowley continued as if Rall had not interrupted at all, "To address Captain Cyrin's second point, the assassination target was not unusually low-ranking. As an Inquisitor, Brother Ticrea was hardly at the higher echelons of Crusade leadership, but he was often entrusted with significant information in his movements between isolated units. The Crusade has lost individuals of similar position and importance to Forgotten Shadow assassins before."

"How many individuals of 'similar position and importance' does the Crusade employ?" Rall asked. He did not ask how many operated without the Crusade's colors as Ticrea did but the question was clear.

"I am not at liberty to say," Crowley said.

"You're not at liberty to-" Rall began heatedly.

Shadowbreaker held a hand up and Rall immediately lapsed into silence, though his green-eyed gaze remained fixed on Crowley. "Thank you, Brother, I believe that answers our question regarding the Captain's second point," he said with a gracious nod of his head. "That leaves, of course, the first and the third. Brother," and here he fixed his one-eyed gaze solely on Crowley, "is it your opinion that Inquisitor Ticrea was targeted for the position he held or the information he carried?"

Crowley opened his mouth slightly as if to speak then closed it again. He glanced around at the assemblage then said, "Both." After a seemingly interminable moment during which Shadowbreaker's gaze did not so much as waver, Crowley abruptly looked away. "Perhaps more the latter than the former."

"Perhaps?" Shadowbreaker repeated mildly.

Crowley ran a hand over his face, the first sign of agitation that Cyrin had seen from the man, and abruptly thrust a sheet of parchment at Shadowbreaker, snapping, "Definitely, then." He rubbed his face again, gesturing with his free hand to the parchment. "Ticrea carried copies of that missive. He was likely tracked and killed for them."

Shadowbreaker's one eye scanned the contents of the parchment which could not have been particularly helpful as the brief glimpse Cyrin had gotten showed lines of encrypted text. "Not killed for them," he corrected. "The assassins obviously knew what they contained. I suspect they were more interested in making sure the missives did not reach you or any others along the Inquisitor's normal route." He fixed his gaze on Crowley again and Crowley sighed as if he knew the question about to be posed. "What are the contents of this missive, Brother?"

"I…" Crowley turned away with a jerk of his head. "I am not at liberty to say, Lord Shadowbreaker."

Shadowbreaker merely nodded. "Of course you are not," he said agreeably enough. "We are aware of how your leadership punishes disloyalty, Brother. An unfortunate policy. Lady Eris, if you please."

Cyrin felt his jaw drop and found he had no ability to stop it. He could see through the corner of his eye an expression of surprise flood Dieter's face – whether his surprise was in response to his normally stoic captain indulging in such an uncharacteristically open reaction or to the sudden announcement of a disturbingly familiar name, Cyrin did not know - and still found he had no recourse.

The dark-haired priestess strode forward from behind Laurena, all semblance of humility gone from her pose as she accepted the proffered parchment with her head held high. She was small in stature – surely the top of her head, even counting the tight coil of dark hair piled atop it, did not reach Cyrin's chin – but the set of her shoulders, the elegant tilt of an aristocratic chin, made her seem much taller. Her slender frame was wrapped in the unostentatious white fabric typical of followers of the Light but she no longer carried herself with the gentle, humble warmth of a follower. Her brilliant gray eyes swept quickly, coolly, expertly over the parchment.

Cyrin managed to snap his mouth shut, inwardly reproaching himself for the breach, but could not help but glance over his shoulder at Dieter. "Eris?" the lieutenant mouthed to him silently. Cyrin shook his head roughly and returned his attention to the parchment.

"You can't possibly –" Crowley began.

"It is possible that this was generated using a one-time pad, milord", the dark-haired priestess said after a moment, cleanly interrupting Crowley without so much as a glance in his direction, "but given the number of copies Brother Crowley mentioned and the disparate target sources to which the pad must have been dispersed some time previously, I find that unlikely. I suspect it was generated using Mystique." She scrutinized the parchment for a moment longer before looking up. "I am also fairly certain that unlike the vast majority of intercepts, it was not generated in the Scarlet Enclave."

Crowley stared at her, agape, sputtering, "How do you… How could you…?" His shoulders drooped then and he asked wearily, "You broke Mystique?"

"Your organization inevitably came up during Lady Eris's detailed studies of the Scourge, Brother, and no offense is meant, of course," Shadowbreaker said easily. "I must say, though, that I'm surprised you did not accept the invitation to General Abbendis's last birthday celebration. We've heard it was quite the party." He patted Crowley's astonished shoulder once, then turned back to Eris with a brusque, "Decrypt it."

Eris acknowledged the command with a brisk nod worthy of a soldier but she had barely turned away when Crowley's quiet voice stopped her: "Don't bother."

Crowley looked around at his audience for a moment then shook his head and turned away. "The missive was not encrypted in the Scarlet Enclave, Priestess, because the Enclave no longer exists." He gestured to the parchment with a jerk of his chin, a rather uncouth gesture given his normal poise, and didn't wait for the shock of his statement to settle in. "That missive describes in disturbingly terse detail the destruction of both New Avalon and Havenshire in the Plaguelands at the hands of the Scourge. The Crusade was massacred along with the townspeople."

Katherine's mouth dropped open into a tiny "o" once more, a positively understated response compared to Dieter's gaping maw. Cyrin shot Dieter a disproving glance before commenting, "Enough survived to send notice."

Crowley just shook his head silently, rubbing both hands over his face.

Shadowbreaker suddenly snatched the parchment from the priestess's hand, the first movement he had made that suggested something other than precise calculation and methodical control, and thrust it towards Crowley, demanding in a dangerously low voice, "Is this a plea for help, Brother, or a call to arms?"

A suddenly animated Crowley swept his arm up, roughly pushing the parchment away. "Have you known the Crusade to beg for help, to herald a gutless flight from the frontlines to factions unable – _unwilling_ – to take up the battle themselves?" he hissed back. "A call to arms, Lord Shadowbreaker, one your own people seem unwilling to make." Naked disdain crossed his aging features. "Oh, you discuss the possibility in your endless meetings. You debate the wisdom of such a move in your incessant strategic assessments. You define and redefine what constitutes an acceptable wartime loss as you sit behind your white walls and sip your perfectly aged wines. All while warm blood floods a ravenous, plagued land, while innocents can only hope in vain for a long and agonizing death rather than a far worse fate." He swept a disgusted gaze over the gathering. "The Crusade has taken the bold stance your emasculated leaders will not: the High General is leading what remains of our forces to face the Lich King himself."

Shadowbreaker nodded matter-of-factly, wiping an errant fleck of spittle from his cheek. "Thank you, Brother Crowley," he said blandly, rolling the parchment up with three flicks of his wrist and handing it back to the dark-haired priestess. He turned back to the others and if he noticed their shock at the brother's outburst – and surely he must have, Cyrin thought, given Dieter's wide-eyed gaze and the way Duthorian Rall's hand hovered ominously over the hilt of his hammer – he ignored it handily. "Archbishop, High Priestess, I believe that Brother Crowley is ready to join the rest of the city's clergy in their isolation. I'm sure he would appreciate your escort." The High Priestess's blue eyes flicked toward Eris, but Shadowbreaker added without a glance at her, "Lady Eris will remain for a few moments longer."

Cyrin watched as Laurena shot the Archbishop another sharp glance – interesting, that – before gesturing with an elegant wave of her pale hand for a now deflated, slump-shouldered Crowley to move ahead of her. Crowley, pliable and docile in the discomfited wake of his outburst, made no argument but after a moment, turned back to Shadowbreaker. A series of emotions flitted across his aging features – a flicker of vehemence, a pang of remorse, a flash of distress, a cloud of sorrow – and his lips opened, closed, then opened again as if he could not find the words to keep up.

Shadowbreaker shook his head. "Go with the Light, Brother," he said almost gently.

The man, shoulders slumped, turned away with the two golden forms of Benedictus and Laurena flanking him. He hardly looked a threat, his suddenly aged frame seeming almost frail when compared to Benedictus's far more powerful form, but Cyrin watched warily as they walked slowly away.

The dark-haired priestess stood motionless at Shadowbreaker's elbow, but her gray eyes had narrowed slightly as she too watched the trio move away. She voiced Cyrin's concern before he could: "If there is to be a security breach, Lord Shadowbreaker, it will be before the Brother is sequestered under Master Shaw."

"Archbishop Benedictus is a suitable escort," Shadowbreaker replied.

"I speak not of his health, Lord Shadowbreaker, nor of Crowley's," Eris snapped, her voice cold. Cyrin raised an eyebrow. "It was irresponsible to let Crowley know we've broken Mystique. Now a single look to one of his myriad invisible confederates within the city walls could mean losing a valuable edge."

Shadowbreaker patted her arm, seemingly oblivious to her the chill in her tone, and said with a hint of humor, "I'll be sure to let Jonathan know the faith you have in his security." He turned away from her then, saying in a quite businesslike tone, "Katherine, assist Duthorian as necessary in developing and implementing our interim security procedures. We will have additional information and resources after my meeting with Mathias." He fixed his one-eyed gazed on Cyrin. "Captain, what is your status?"

"On call as necessary, sir, but on hold otherwise," Cyrin said. "Brother Karman of Theramore sent us to continue our training with you. General Marcus has given us leave to -"

"Excellent," interrupted Shadowbreaker with a nod. "Then you and Lieutenant Dieter will escort Lady Eris to Light's Hope Chapel in the morning. She will brief you on the details before your departure."

"Of course, sir, but –" Cyrin began.

"My lord, I hardly need an escort for such a –" Eris began.

"Lady Eris, we will reconvene in two hours to discuss the details," Shadowbreaker said, smoothly overriding them. "Captain, Lieutenant, I highly suggest the accommodations at the Gilded Rose. Thank you all."

He nodded to each of them in turn and without another word, strode out of the Cathedral.

Cyrin blinked once, twice, before exchanging a bemused glanced with Dieter. The lieutenant shrugged.

He glanced up to find Eris's cool, discriminating gaze sliding over him but before he could say a word, she said, "Meet me at the front gates at sunrise. I will brief you on the way." She turned on her heel and walked away, the Crusade's missive in her hand.

Cyrin paused, speechless.

"Welcome to Stormwind," snorted Duthorian Rall.


	4. Interlude: The First War

**Interlude: The First War**

"It's not much of a welcome, is it?"

Tanna Cero, her arms wrapped as tightly as she dared around the precious package she cradled against her chest, managed to shoot a withering glare up at the speaker, despite such inconveniences as a wounded horse foaming at the mouth, a hailstorm of fiery arrows raining down on them, and lungs spasming under the thick soot that was almost all that remained of the peaceful town of Goldshire.

"Under the circumstances, I would be hard-pressed to think of a better one," she snapped, punctuating the declaration with a sooty cough, deftly summoning a protective magical barrier around herself and her cargo, its familiar warmth falling over her just before the shadowcaster's spell could hit her. She clutched her parcel closer to her, protectively, and leaned back down against the horse's straining neck, willing it run faster, faster.

"You're right," Tal Eris said agreeably enough. "The last time there were this many soldiers at the gates, they were welcoming a king." His tone was easy even as he jerked the reins hard to the left, his arms tightening around her. The horse responded better than he had imagined it would – it was a farm animal, after all, not a trained warhorse – but it was simply not agile enough to entirely avoid the shower of flames that had appeared in front of it; it screamed its terror, its eyes rolling, but it did not throw them. A courageous animal.

Tal hissed as a ball of flame seared the flesh of his upper right arm and when he spoke again, it was through clenched teeth. "Though I'm pretty sure confetti was made out of paper in those days."

"This is not the time for jokes," Tanna snapped. Her tone was harsh though she suspected – though would never admit – that it was far more a result of either their impending doom or the sudden pain evident in her companion's voice than of Lord Tal Eris's levity. She dared to take one hand from her cargo, clutching a deep handful of the horse's mane to steady herself, and concentrated as best she could.

"This is precisely the time for jokes," Tal countered, feeling the burning of his arm subside significantly under the power of her spell. "They didn't invent comedic relief for the fun times. Watch it." His warning was given in the same easy, comfortable tone as the rest, even as he summoned a protective shield around her, a scant moment before a fiery ball flew at her, its power deflected harmlessly away by the barrier. Mostly harmlessly. He felt a spray of magical heat splash into his face.

"They didn't invent it for evening vespers either," Tanna said pointedly. She concentrated for a moment, removing as many ill effects of the fireball that she could sense he suffered, then pulled her arm away from the horse's thick mane, once again wrapping it around her cargo.

"I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about," Tal said with admirable primness, even as his eyes scraped over the orcs still in their path and his right hand, trusting the left to handle the reins, moved to his side to unsheath his mace.

Tanna whispered under her breath for a moment, seeing his mace glow golden in the corner of her eye for a moment in response, then glared at him again. "Yes, I'm sure you had absolutely nothing to do with those geese during Priestess Anne's doxology."

An image of Priestess's Anne bloody body, left where it had fallen in the burning remnants of the abbey's narthex, flashed before her eyes.

He somehow seemed to know. Even under the hail of fire and the heavy sheen of sweat, his breath was warm in her ear. The image faded from her vision immediately. "I'm beginning to think you don't like me, Cleric Cero," he murmured into her ear.

He didn't give her a chance to respond, ordering, "Reins," as he straightened.

She caught the reins and pulled them tight in her hand. Single hand. It was all she could afford to use and still protect her precious parcel.

"The head," she reminded him tightly, leaning even lower against the horse to drive it faster. She dug her knees hard into the horse's flank. "Single stroke. Snap the neck."

She half-expected a flippant remark in response but the only reply she received was a moment of concentration so strong that she could sense the change in his body behind her and, as they flew past the last group of orcs, two sickening crunches occurring sequentially with impossible speed.

She had a momentary vision of horror – a strong, green hand clamping down over her forearm, dragging her off the horse, exposing her cargo and her throat... Tal making the disastrous decision to rein in the horse and stop for her – but they were through.

"Clerics of Northshire!" Tal shouted from behind her, grabbing the reins from her hands, pushing her impossibly lower to the horse's neck with the weight of his own body, and kicking the horse hard. They flew towards the white walls of Stormwind. "Clerics of Northshire!"

They were enveloped in the throngs of soldiers protecting the white walls, pushed through toward the rear, past the walls, toward the city itself. She was suddenly off the horse, the horse was gone, someone was pulling her arm, the hand was gone, someone falling into her that she desperately tried to help to his feet, another hand on her arm....

Suddenly, Tal was in front of her and the whirlwind of color and sound and chaos receded behind him. She blinked up at him blankly. "What did you say?" she asked articulately.  
A shadow of a frown passed over his face – concern, perhaps; maybe slight confusion; it was rare, after all, that she was ever off-balance – but it was a shadow only. "Is he okay?" he repeated.

It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about and when she did, the blank expression on her face was almost immediately replaced with near panic. She hastily dropped her arms from where they were clenched tightly in front of her and stared down at her cargo.

He stared back up at her.

His face was streaked with soot and was alarmingly red. He couldn't possibly have been hit – not even the best spellcaster they'd had could have gotten through her body to get to him – but perhaps she had been holding him too tightly. Or... was he hungry? About to cry? She had no idea.

She blinked at him.

He blinked back.

"I... think so?"

Tal Eris barked a laugh at her. It was honest, impulsive, and somehow, despite the sounds of horror just meters away, the jostling of the crowds, the scent of blood on the air... she found it perfectly natural.

"I have no idea," she admitted, taking no offense at his laugh at her expense. "I'm, uh." The baby kicked its legs slightly and she awkwardly repositioned him in her arms, drawing him closer to her body just in case he decided to do something unexpected. "I..." Had never held a baby before? Had no idea what to do with him? Wished to the Light that the dead woman at the foot of his ruined bassinet hadn't been his mother? "I'm not even sure he's a he."

Tal smirked at her and she scowled back in return, knowing full well what he was about to say.

They were interrupted by a harried woman in blood-streaked white robes. A physician, perhaps. Her eyes were red but her hands were steady and when she spoke, her voice was brisk. "Are you injured?" she asked them, eyes expertly raking over them for indications of such. "Is your baby?"

"He's not mi-" Tanna started to say.

"We're not hurt," Tal interrupted her. "If you have shelter, though, Cleric Cero and the child could use it."

Tanna stared at him open-mouthed, her expression one of both confusion and near insult. "What do you mean? I'm going with you. They destroyed the abbey, Tal. I won't just -"

A rare expression of darkness clouded his face and it was surprising enough that she lapsed immediately into silence. "I'm well aware of what they did, Tanna," he replied. He jerked a nod toward the baby in her arms. "So's he. Don't make him an orphan twice today."

She looked down at the baby then back up at Tal. She blinked quickly as if blinking alone could bring the world around her back into order. "But..." She shook her head, trying to make sense out of something that seemed determined to remain nonsensical. "You need me."

"You're right," he said agreeably. "I do."

She would have been just fine –threatened him with dismemberment if he dared to go into battle without her, pinned him hard and kept him there until he admitted she was better than he was and tapped out, any number of things - if he hadn't reached up and drawn the back of his hand lightly over her cheek.

Instead, she stared up at him, mouth open, too shocked to even move away from the caress. "This is not the time for jokes," she said after a moment.

He smiled. "Right again, Cleric Cero." His hand lingered for just a moment longer before he lowered it. "Take good care of him. I'll be back soon."

He nodded to the physician then turned around and began pushed through the sea of refugees, back toward the walls.

She stared after him for a long moment, her eyes burning. She blinked furiously. Orc's fire. Just orc's fire.

She watched him fade into the throngs and, just as his sandy hair disappeared before her, bellowed with all the skill and volume of a military master on the battlefield, her voice carrying easily over the din, "I don't know the first damned thing about babies, Lord Tal Eris! You'd better finish them off and get back here before he gets hungry!"

She could have sworn she heard his guffaw of laughter.


	5. Dwarves

Cyrin felt a pang of hunger rumble through his stomach – his last meal, he recalled, had been a crusty slice of bread and a wedge of cheese, eaten unceremoniously in the saddle as he and Dieter rode to Stormwind – but kept his attention firmly on the dwarf before him.

The Light save him from gold-grubbing opportunists. He carefully held on to his patience, his features schooled into an appropriately dispassionate mask which was far more useful though infinitely less satisfying than rolling his eyes heavenward and sighing heavily, as had been his first impulse.

"I appreciate your time and expertise, Master Deepforge," he said to the truculent dwarf, pretending he hadn't noticed the stout man's eyes scouring over the satchel tied to the back of the saddle. He wasn't quite sure what exactly the dwarf hoped to see – Cyrin was a soldier; he wasn't sure which was less likely: that he would earn a fat purse in such a career or that he would be dumb enough to leave it in plain view – but he had too much to get done before the morning's departure to worry about it.

Deepforge grunted what Cyrin assumed was an acknowledgement of some sort then, dusting his hands off on an equally dusty smock, came around for a closer look at the two horses trailing behind Cyrin. Cyrin kept his hand nonchalantly on his mount's bridle just in case – she was a well-trained beast but she was almost as intolerant of incompetence as her master – but he soon found his caution was unwarranted. The dwarf approached her with the practiced ease of a man long used to horses, keeping himself in her sight all the time and rubbing an appreciative hand over her flank as he went.

"Ah, a fine beast," he muttered, possibly to himself. "What be the beastie's name?" He gave Cyrin a quick once-over, noting his armor, his shield, the unmistakably golden-hued hammer at his side, and smirked. "Steadfast, maybe? Valiant? Eh? Resolute? Courageous? Eh eh?" He chuckled to himself, turning back to the horse and drawing a hand over the well-crafted armor she bore.

Cyrin didn't bat an eye. "Austerity," he said gravely. He gestured to the second horse, Dieter's mount. "And that's Virginity."

The dwarf's hand paused over the armor for a fraction of a second only and if Intrepid minded being called "Austerity" for the rest of his inspection, she gave no indication. Cyrin bit back a smirk.

"To the Plaguelands and back, eh?" Deepforge asked as soon as the inspection was complete.

"Yes, sir."

Cyrin gave no more information and the dwarf didn't ask. "I'd consider re-shoeing the second beast before ye go but it could likely make twice the distance you're looking at if we just tighten 'em up." He grunted again, adding grudgingly, "Ye must have a dwarf up in Theramore teaching you how to care for yer goods."

They didn't, or at least not regularly, but Cyrin nodded anyway. "All who have such a resource are most fortunate," he agreed.

"Leave the beasties here, laddie," said Deepforge to Cyrin, gesturing for a young human boy to come up and take the bridles. "We'll have 'em ready for ye by morning."

"We leave early, Master Deepforge," Cyrin said, watching as the young boy began leading the horses away. He wondered vaguely if a child of such an age knew how fortunate he was to have earned an apprenticeship under a dwarven master.

"They'll be ready, laddie," the dwarf said, waving a hand, already elbow-deep in an iron container full of tools. He glanced up long enough to shout, "Get to the bellows, boy!", at the young boy, but otherwise was clearly already preparing for his work. "Where are ye lodging?" He was bent over so far into the container that his voice echoed slightly.

"We're lodging at the Gilded Rose," Cyrin said.

"They'll be ready for ye there by sunrise," the dwarf said. He finally emerged from the toolbox and disappeared back into his shop without another word.

Dwarves.


	6. Instincts

"Do you suppose Lord Shadowbreaker will listen to reason in this matter? He –" High Priestess Laurena interrupted herself with a hiss, shooting a decidedly un-Light-like look at Shaina Fuller, the Cathedral's doctor, as she sharply tightened the bandage on her arm.

"Sorry," Shaina said perfunctorily as she briskly tied a knot and began rummaging through her bag. She pulled several weathered pouches from the bag and began sprinkling their contents, in a seemingly quite complex pattern, into a goblet.

Archbishop Benedictus carefully replaced his goblet on the table, saying with equal care, "I've never known Lord Shadowbreaker to be unreasonable, Laurena."

Laurena pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut and wishing the combined effort would chase her headache away. "Nor have I," she admitted tiredly. She scrubbed a hand over her face, showing remarkably less poise than she normally did. The rumpled robes, startlingly unkempt hair, and sweat-streaked face certainly did nothing to add to her presentation.

When the Archbishop spoke, his voice was kind. "I admit that I do not have the visibility into the priestesses as you do, Laurena; I do now and have always trusted them under your care and I have a terrible suspicion that my meddling would be precisely that." He caught Shaina Fuller's eye and nodded for her to give the Head Priestess the draught she had prepared. "But even I am aware of the focus of her studies, the time that has been spent, the singular dedication she has shown to it, and the incredible value she has already provided to our efforts against the Crusade. I can certainly see how her chosen field concerns you – you have told me your concerns before and I have shared them – and certainly I can appreciate how such a… unique… path of study could throw – and in fact, has thrown - a wrench into your normally quite smooth operations at the Cathedral. Your flexibility in this regard is to be commended. But…" He folded his hands on the table. "But from my arguably distant perspective, Laurena, it does seem quite reasonable for Lord Shadowbreaker to give her this task."

"But sir, the…" She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled slowly, then folded her hands neatly on the table top, mimicking his pose. "Sir," she attempted again in a more even tone of voice, "she is not ready for this. It is as simple as that. She is not ready for this."

The Archbishop perused her for a long moment before slowly sitting back in his chair. "All right, Laurena," he agreed. "Are you concerned about her safety? The fact that she has never, since coming under your tutelage, traveled such a distance as from here to Light's Hope?"

"No, I believe Lord Shadowbreaker would never knowingly place one of our priestesses in such a situation," Laurena said with a shake of her head. "The Plaguelands are harsh, but he has assigned hand-picked guards to her and certainly this speaks to their qualifications. Though I do wonder why he would select Theramore trainees when he has the pick of General Marcus's troops here.. and they do appear quite…" She paused. "Rough."

The Archbishop considered that for a moment. "Is your concern then that she, as a young and attractive woman, will not be safe in their company?"

Laurena looked horrified. "No, no, of course not," she said hastily. A goblet appeared over her shoulder and she accepted it with a nod of thanks to Shaina, sipping from it gratefully. "That they might… no, of course not."

"Then is your concern simply that she has not achieved sufficient expertise in her studies? That this task might simply be beyond her?"

"No, I…" Laurena shook her head. "No, I've not met anyone with the expertise she has cultivated. I know of no one who is as prepared as she is, short of Shadowbreaker himself."

The Archbishop heaved a sigh. "Then what, Laurena?" He leaned back toward the table, fixing his eyes on hers. "What concerns you about this small task?"

Laurena stared back at him for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and deliberate. The draught Shaina had given her for the pain was loosening her tongue and she fought against it, determined to give each of her words the full, enunciated gravity they warranted.

"Our Cathedral came under attack today, Archbishop," she said. The words were crisp, perfect, despite the softness of her tone. "A direct and unwarranted assault. Our holy people were attacked, wounded, even slaughtered. On an Altar of the Light. In the heart of Stormwind. Such has not been seen since the Second War! The First, if you would prefer to compare to the near wholesale slaughter of the Northshire Clerics."

"Your point, Laurena?" the Archbishop asked quietly.

"My point, Archbishop, is that no one was prepared for this. We did not have training to fall back on. We had only our instincts." She leaned closer toward him. "Priestess Eris saw the Lightslayer behind Shadowbreaker. I don't know how she saw it but she did. Any other priestess with such sharp eyes would have called upon the Light to protect and save him, ensconcing him in the safety of a shield, however temporary, empowering the armor he wore, or even beginning a restorative incantation that would land after the blade did."

"And Lady Eris did not."

"She did not. Yes, Shadowbreaker lives. She saw what the rest of us did not and she reacted with a speed I did not expect. There is no doubt in my mind that she saved his life, that but for her interference, Shadowbreaker would have been dealt a deathblow."

Laurena leaned impossibly closer, continuing in a low but unmistakably heated whisper, "But I want us to be exactly and perfectly clear on what we are doing, Archbishop. We are sending into the Plaguelands, the heart of shadow in these lands, a girl whose first impulse was not to call on the Light to protect … but to call on the shadows to attack. To destroy."

The Archbishop was silent for a long time. "So your concern, then, is for her soul." His voice was quiet.

Laurena seemed to deflate and sat back in her chair, her normally straight shoulders stooped slightly. She cupped her goblet between her hands and stared into the musty liquid it contained, watching the flickering firelight reflected in its surface. "Perhaps," she said quietly. "Or perhaps just a sudden realization. Pride. Hubris. She has studied the Crusade and the Scourge since she was a child – endlessly, every day, day in and day out - and we let her. Encouraged her, even. And how could we not? She broke their ciphers in weeks. She broke the spread pattern of the Plague in time to save a thousand villagers. She has pinpointed Crusade targets weeks before even their internal missives went out. She has lived and breathed our enemies for her entire life and her value cannot be reckoned." She ran a hand over her face. "But to expose such a little girl to such horrors… Were we so blind, so prideful, to think that we could ask a child to think like one of these monsters, experience their horrors and understand their doings… and somehow grow up to still fear their powers? Somehow still know that they are _wrong_?"

The Archbishop smiled gently at her. "I think you are allowing your weariness to color your views, Laurena," he said. He held up a hand when it looked like she was about to protest and continued, "That is not to say that I don't think your concerns are feasible. I most certainly do and it warms my heart to know that the Head Priestess of the Cathedral feels these pains for her flock." He patted her hand. "But you have forgotten that this child has been in the care of the Light since her birth. You said it yourself, my dear; our people did not have training to fall instinctively back upon when our sanctuary was breached. That Lady Eris opted to attack rather than protect says nothing more than she is untrained. This is a fault that lies squarely upon our shoulders… but it is not one that will cost the girl her soul, nor you your peace of mind or your faith in the power of the Light. It is a solvable one and tomorrow, Laurena, we will begin solving it."

Laurena attempted a return smile. "Calisthenics and weapons training in the cloister, sir?"

"Something like that." He pushed his chair away from the table and stood slowly, a series of joints popping as he did so. "Good night, Laurena. Sleep well."

"Thank you, sir," she replied quietly. "You as well."


End file.
